


a way to capture this

by kindclaws



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Post-War, Snowball Fights, Snowed In, author misses painting and it probably Shows, nauseating amount of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 15:46:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8897863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindclaws/pseuds/kindclaws
Summary: With Velaris buried under a thick blanket of snow, Feyre and Rhys have the art studio all to themselves, and Feyre decides to take the opportunity to paint Rhys the way she wishes more people would see him.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aquietpersonwithaloudmind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aquietpersonwithaloudmind/gifts).



> Happy holidays, [cass-ian!](http://www.cass-ian.tumblr.com) I loved your thoughtful responses to all my questions and I'm excited to talk to you more after the reveal - we share a lot of opinions on side characters and you seem like a great person so we're going to be friends - sorry, I don't make the rules. I hope you enjoy your present and you have an amazing winter! :)  
> Title from Roger Rabbit by Sleeping With Sirens.

Feyre starts to regret the open-toed high heels she picked out for the night after about five steps past the front door, when her feet sink into the fine layer of snow dusting Velaris' streets. She shivers, despite herself. Her fae body doesn't register cold like her human one did, and winters in Velaris are nothing compared to the ones she spent in the woods south of the wall, but shivering is muscle memory at this point. 

She frowns down at her shoes and wonders if she should head back inside and dress more warmly. The Inner Circle is meeting at Rita's for the evening and she doesn't want to be late, though she could always winnow closer if she thinks she's running out of time. Something about Velaris makes Feyre treasure her walks through its winding streets - especially on snowy evenings like these. 

This is what Feyre calls fairytale snow: drifting down from the sky in great big clumps, soft and slow and settling on her hair and eyelashes. The lanterns that line the cobblestone streets are already lit, casting pools of golden light to illuminate her way to Rita's, and the flakes that float into their range glow brightly. Feyre beams at the sight and has to actively remind herself not to slow down to take it in, though she's already thinking about painting it yet again. Last week she had the brilliant idea of using a toothbrush to flick white paint onto a canvas that had felt a little lacking in snowfall - the result is much quicker and more realistic than if she had taken the time to paint every dot individually. She's looking forward to a lot of winter scenes. 

As pleasant as her walk was, the rush of warm air that greets her as she walks into Rita's is very welcome. Feyre unwinds her scarf from around her neck, shaking off the snow that settled in the creases, and spots the majority of the Inner Circle already at their usual table. Rhys sits back in his chair as soon as he notices her approach and draws an appreciative look down the line of her leg.

"Nice heels, Feyre," Mor says with a grin. "Rhys forgot what he was talking about as soon as he saw you."

"I have not!" Rhys immediately retorts, whipping his head back to face the table. Cassian turns away from the table, but Feyre can see his broad shoulders shaking with a vicious bout of laughter. 

"Keep going, then," Amren murmurs just over the beat of the music. She doesn't deign to look up as Feyre slides into the booth with them, just keeps swirling her bloody drink around a wine glass. Rhys opens his mouth, sighs heavily, and drops his forehead into one hand. Feyre winks at Mor and lays a comforting palm on Rhys' thigh, underneath the table. A moment later his fingers wrap around hers and squeeze once, a silent and warm greeting. 

"Enough teasing," Feyre says. "What have I missed?"

"Azriel led a dramatic tango down Rita's dancefloor," Mor quips. 

"With a rose between his teeth," Rhys adds. 

" _Two_ roses," Cassian says, wrapping an arm around Azriel's shoulders and wriggling his eyebrows dramatically. Azriel, to his credit, bears his friends' weight and mocking with remarkable grace. He fixes his gaze on Feyre and smiles so slightly she nearly misses it. 

"It was actually three," he says mildly.

"I'm sorry I missed it," Feyre says with a laugh, and calls a toast. Their table raises their glasses to Azriel, and to a good evening. The night blurs for Feyre - later, she and Rhys walk home, stopping every few steps to gaze up at the snowflakes that are now falling in even greater quantities since they're finding it difficult to walk _and_ look up while tipsy. 

Feyre stretches out her palm and watches in fascination as a small mountain of snow builds on her mitten. 

"Velaris is going to be snowed in tomorrow, if this keeps up," she murmurs to Rhys, who bends down to brace his chin on her shoulder and hums quietly. 

"You should see it in the morning," he whispers into her ear. "It's going to be gorgeous."

 

 

 

..........................................................................................................................................

 

 

 

 

He's right. Dawn breaks early in the winter, and by the time they've dressed and had breakfast, the sky is already bright and pale. It's finally stopped snowing for the time being, but it lasted well into the night and Velaris is slowly waking under a blanket of snow as tall as Feyre's hips. When Feyre leaves the apartment for her weekly painting sessions at a local art store a few streets away, she finds her neighbours already busily clearing their porches and checking in on each other while their children set upon the snow with wild glee. 

The day's weak sunlight has started to melt the topmost layer of the snow, leaving it wet and heavy and perfect for packing into balls. Feyre observes a gathering of nearby Fae children that have committed themselves to rolling a head for a snowman taller than they are, and gets a dangerous idea just as Rhys pokes his head out of the door to see if she's gone yet. 

While he yawns, she quickly scoops up a handful, packs it into a snowball, and throws it. It doesn't land in his still-open mouth, which she was aiming for, but it does hit him high in the forehead, splattering snow into his hair. He freezes, his face scrunched into unattractive shock, before reaching up and clawing it off. Rhys' glare finds Feyre immediately. She waves an incriminating snow-sprinkled mitten at him and grins, before dashing off as quick as she can.

Unfortunately, she quickly realizes a flaw in her plan: it's very hard to run away in waist-high snow. Rhys winnows to her immediately and wraps his arms around her waist as she tries to wade away, and their combined weight pulls both of them into a snowdrift. When they surface for air, sputtering, Feyre throws another handful of snow in Rhys' face and makes to escape again. 

"Sorry, no time to play!" she calls over her shoulder. "I have a painting class to get to!"

"You are _not_ getting away that easily," he growls, and a moment later a snowball hits Feyre right in the back of the head. They fight all the way to the art store - Feyre could just as easily winnow there and save herself the trouble, but it's _fun_. She's never seen Rhys look quite so undignified as when she shoves snow down the back of his neck, and she knows it's good for him to relax too. Their duties as High Lord and Lady keep them busy much of the time. Feyre paints whenever she can so she doesn't go stir-crazy from the stress, and Rhys, well. Rhys has his outlets. 

Once the art shop comes into view, Feyre blows Rhys a kiss and wades her way through the snow to the door. She hears him curse behind her as she digs some room for the door to open and slips inside, closing it behind her when Rhys is just a few steps away. Their gaze meets through the glass window, and he narrows his eyes as Feyre grins. A moment later there is a rush of familiar shadows as he winnows behind her and presses her to the door. 

" _You_ ," Rhys enunciates, his nose brushing Feyre's, "Are a _menace_."

"And _you_ ," Feyre answers sweetly, "Are going to make the little old lady who runs this shop faint if she finds us in this scandalous position."

Rhys cocks his head to the side and concentrates for a moment. 

"There's no one here," he says, finally pulling away from Feyre to look around. 

"No way," Feyre says, side-stepping her mate and toeing off her snowy boots before venturing deeper into the store. "The door was unlocked, and there should be other students already."

She peeks down aisles and aisles of paintbrushes and canvases of all sizes, tubes of acrylics and oils and watercolours arranged in dizzying rainbows, and eventually comes to the very back of the store where the classrooms are. 

"I think it will take a while for Velaris to dig itself out of the snow," Rhys says, following her. "So, this is where you go every weekend?"

"Sometimes it's easier to work in a busy room than it is in my studio," she says defensively. "Now that I'm already here, it seems silly to go back home..." Feyre turns around and catches sight of Rhys leaning against the doorway, ruffling snow out of his hair. It's been ages, but somehow the sight of him still leaves her breathless, especially in moments like these. "I was going to take the opportunity to paint the snow in watercolours but if you're here too... Rhys, would you do me the honour of being my model today?"

He gives her a delighted look, and, in the snap of his fingers, is stretched out on a nearby desk completely naked. 

"How's this?" he asks, propping his head up on a finely muscled arm. 

" _Rhys_ ," Feyre hisses between laughs, "The other students could be here any minute! And knowing you, I'm sure you've already had nude portraits done."

"Guilty as charged," Rhys says, completely unperturbed. "Cassian, too. It was an interesting weekend, we had some time on our hands, there was alcohol. If you want to see the final result I'm sure I could dig it up for you."

"Oh," Feyre says with a wicked grin, "Now I know what I'm getting Nesta for her birthday. Now, I can't believe I'm asking you this, but _please_ put some clothes on. Something you'd wear around the house."

Rhys sits up, snaps his fingers, and is once again dressed in the familiar black tunics he so often favours. Feyre doesn't miss that he's left a few buttons undone at the neck, and doesn't believe that's an accident for one second. 

"So how do you want me?" 

"I want to paint you the way people don't usually get to see you," Feyre muses, tapping a finger against her lip. "They see a terrifying monster lounging on a throne in the Court of Nightmares, or they see a High Lord with indescribable power, or a man out around town with his friends, laughing and relaxing."

"Those are all me," Rhys says, his voice even as he watches her carefully. 

"I want them to start seeing how much you love them," Feyre says softly. "How hard you work every day to keep their lives running smoothly. I don't want some staged portrait where you're staring right at me. I want you to sit over there," she says, pointing to a nearby windowsill with some paint-stained cushions, "And just do your work. You don't have to pay any attention to me at all."

"As the artist requires," Rhys says, slipping off the desk and sauntering past her to the windowsill. Feyre leans into the brief touch around her waist as he passes, and watches him clamber onto the window seat and summon a tall stack of paperwork. She looks at his silhouette against the bright exterior through the window and thinks about how to frame the painting. She rather likes the contrast of the blindingly white snow outside and the shadows that lurk and sway around him as they always do, gathering in the creases of his clothing and the edges of his tall, powerful body. 

She did plan on doing watercolours today, but they just won't do for his shadows. When it comes to blending dark colours, the best way to go is oils. Feyre sets off to gather the necessary materials, knowing the old lady who owns the store and runs the classes will charge her for whatever she needs at the end. By the time she's propped a large canvas on an easel and squeezed a few basic colours on her palette, Rhys is already completely engrossed in his work, as she knew he would be. She smiles at the concentration on his face as he flips between two conflicting reports, and gets to work blocking out the basic shapes and colours on her canvas. 

"Your paint smells very strongly," Rhys comments, just as she is painting the bright line where the light coming in through the window casts a halo around his profile. 

"Don't move your head! It's just the turpentine, let me know if it bothers you too much," Feyre calls quickly, shaking her paintbrush at him until he turns back to his work with a smile. It pushes his cheekbones up high, changing the line she'd just made, and with a sigh she resolves to come back to it later when he's gotten absorbed in reading again. She takes a small brush and mixes linseed oil with navy blues and rich indigos, and gets to work painting faint swirls in the darkness under Rhys' arm, the crook of his knee, his hair, until the shadows themselves seem alive on the canvas, bidding their time to uncoil and reach out. 

Feyre doesn't realize how much time has passed until she feels Rhys' presence behind her, his breath on her shoulder. She jumps a little, then puts her palette down to focus on the intent expression on his face. 

"Everything all right?" she asks, glancing between him and the canvas. She hadn't even realized that the view out the window is now washed in the pinks and purples of a quickly falling dusk. Rhys says nothing for a moment, and Feyre bites her lip nervously, resisting the urge to turn the canvas away from his scrutinizing gaze. "It's not done yet," she adds quickly, gesturing to the missing details on the paperwork he's pouring over, the lack of golden trim on his tunic. "Oil paints take forever to dry so I'll probably leave this canvas here over the week and come back to add the little stuff, you know -"

"Feyre," Rhys says, sternly but softly. "It's perfect. You're an incredible artist, you know this."

"Really?"

He finally tears his eyes away from the canvas and wraps her up in a tight hug, his chin resting against her hair, his breath warm against her scalp. Feyre stops wringing her hands long enough to rest them against his chest and lean in. Of course, Rhys is right, she _knows_ she's good, especially after years and years of time to practice, but this painting feels a little more personal than some of the landscapes she's been doing recently, and when she can see her heart beating in a painting, so vulnerable and exposed, sometimes that old worry comes back. Her love for Rhys shines through in every brushstroke - the attention paid to his face, to his knuckles, the contrast of softness and strength. 

"Is this truly how you see me?" he asks.

"Yes," Feyre breathes. "Without a doubt."

"It's the most beautiful painting anyone's ever done of me."

Feyre is suddenly overcome with a startlingly vivid mental image of the nude painting Rhys says exists somewhere in the world, and laughs so hard her knees go weak and only Rhys' arms around her keep her from falling to the floor. 

"It even beats your nude portrait with Cassian?" she asks between giggles. 

"It even beats that, though I'll have you know it's an excellent rendition of my superb musculature," Rhys answers.

"You know, this doesn't get you out of showing that to me," Feyre says, leaning up to punctuate her words with a slow kiss. Rhys responds with the same deliberate pace, walking her back to the nearest desk and pulling her up to his height. The resemblance the scene bears to their time at the cottage is not lost on Feyre, and she responds eagerly. Rhys breaks away from her mouth to place hot, open-mouthed kisses down the curve of her neck and his hands reach for the buttons on her smock just as her traitor stomach rumbles loudly. 

They both look down. 

"Way to ruin the moment," Feyre grumbles to her own stomach. It rumbles more insistently in response, which she supposes is deserved - they've both been absorbed in their work for hours and hours.

"Come on," Rhys says, slipping his hand against her palm and twining their fingers together. "Let's get you dinner."

 

**Author's Note:**

> I spent a lot of time as a kid painting in the back room of an art store that permanently smelled like turpentine and freshly-sanded wood and I remember it very fondly.  
> Originally this included a whole sideplot where Feyre painted sets for some kids doing a weird theatre production of "How the Grinch Stole Christmas" and Cassian helped and the whole Inner Circle went to go see the play at the end, but that led me into a lot of confusing questions of how Prythian would interpret modern day holiday traditions and also how does theatre work, so I scrapped it for time. Maybe for a sequel if cass-ian asks nicely.  
> Happy holidays everyone!


End file.
